What's In a Name?
Speeding down the freeway doing 90. On our way to a festival. The less you know about that, the better. After all, life is about the journey, not the destination.
And the journey?
Philly to Virginia Beach. Windows down. Tunes blasting. Sunlight peering optimistically through the open roof. Concert tickets tucked discretely in the driver-side visor. A perfect morning in 1998.
We moved into the left lane to pass a lazy Buick, gave it a little gas and watched helplessly as our concert tickets fluttered, flapped and—as if somebody had opened the shuttle hatch—flew out the window, sucked into the vacuum of outer-space.
We lurched across the rumble strip and screeched to a halt. How far had the tickets gone? And how far had we gone?
We stood frozen next to the concrete barrier, looking backwards up the interstate, as rush hour hurtled past. It was a dizzy and dangerous moment.
Then, a brilliant breeze swept the shoulder. In the distance, a concert voucher skipped almost imperceptibly before landing flat again. We saw it happen. With velocity all around us, a moment frozen in time.
Running 100 feet against traffic, we found them, face up, looking auspiciously toward the highway marker for Mile 59.
Mile 59 is a moment of discovery; a revelatory stillness that brings clarity while the world moves with dizzying velocity; a marker of good fortune, best practice, and a vision for the almost imperceptible.